Winter Moon

calm, detached. His placid expression and marble-white skin was

reminiscent of the beatific countenances on the sacred figures

portrayed in cathedral statuary, and he was, indeed, their only

possible salvation.

A sudden flurry of activity from the Giver. A ripple of movement

through the tentacles.

Heather gasped, and Harlan Moffit dropped his half emptied can of

gasoline.

Another ripple, stronger than the first. The hideous mouths opened

wide as if to shriek. A thick, wet, repugnant shijting.

Jack turned to Toby.

Terror disturbed the boy's placid expression, like the shadow of a

warplane passing over a summer meadow. But it flickered and was

gone.

His features relaxed.

The Giver grew still once more.

"Hurry," Heather said.

o

Harlan insisted on being the last one out. He poured the trail of

gasoline to which they would touch a match

470

DEAN KOONTZ

from the safety of the yard. Passing through the front room, he doused

the corpse and its slavemaster.

He had never been so scared in his life. He was so loose in the bowels

that he was amazed he hadn't ruined a good pair of corduroys. No

reason why he had to be the last one out. He could have let the cop do

it. But that thing down there ...

He supposed he wanted to be the one to lay down the fuse because of

Cindi and Luci and Nanci, because of all his neighbors in Eagle's Roost

too, because the sight of that thing had made him realize how much he

loved them, more than he'd ever thought. Even people he'd never much

liked before--Mrs. Kerry at the diner, Bob Falkenberg at Hensen's Feed

and Grain--he was eager to see again, because suddenly it seemed to him

that he had a world in common with them and so much to talk about.

Hell of a thing to have to experience, hell of a thing to have to see,

to be reminded you're a human being and all it meant to be one.

o

His dad struck the match. The snow burned. A line of fire streaked

back through the open door of the caretaker's house.

The black sea heaved and rolled.

Little green boat. Putter and scatter. Putter and scatter.

The explosion shattered the windows and even blew off some of the big

squares of plyboard that had covered them. Flames crackled up the

stone walls.

The sea was black and thick as mud, churning and rolling and full of

hate, wanting to pull him down, call WINTER MOONING him out of the

boat, out of the boat and into the darkness below, and a part of him

almost wanted to go, but he stayed in the little green boat, holding

tight to the railing, holding on for dear life, scattering the Calming

Dust with his free hand, weighing down the cold sea, holding on tight

and doing what had to be done, just what had to be done.

Later, with sheriff's deputies taking statements from Heather and

Harlan in patrol cars, with other deputies and firemen sifting for

proof in the ruins of the main house, Jack stood with Toby in the

stables, where the electric heaters still worked. For a while they

just stared through the half-open door at the falling snow and took

turns petting Falstaff when he rubbed against their legs.

Eventually Jack said, "Is it over?"

"Maybe."

"You don't know for sure?"

"Right near the end," the boy said, "when it was burning up, it made

some of itself into little boring worms, bad things, and they tunneled

into the cellar walls, trying to get away from the fire. But maybe

they were all burned up, anyway."

"We can look for them. Or the right people can, the military people

and the scientists who'll be here before long. We can try to find

every last one of them."

"Because it can grow again," the boy said.

The snow was not falling as hard as it had been all through the night

and morning. The wind was dying down as well.

"Are you going to be all right?" Jack asked.

"Yeah."

"You sure?"

"Never the same," Toby said solemnly. "Never the same . . . but all

right."

That is, Jack thought, the way of life. The horror changes us, because

we can never forget. Cursed with memory. It starts when we're old

enough to know what death is and realize that sooner or later we'll

lose everyone we love. We're never the same. But somehow we're all

right. We go on.

o

Eleven days before Christmas, they topped the Hollywood Hills and drove

down into Los Angeles. The day was sunny, the air unusually clear, and

the palm trees majestic.

In the back of the Explorer, Falstaff moved from window to window,

inspecting the city. He made small, snuffling sounds as if he approved

of the place.

Heather was eager to see Gina Tendero, Alma Bryson, and so many other

friends, old neighbors. She felt that she was coming home after years

in another country, and her heart swelled.

Home was not a perfect place. But it was the only home they had, and

they could hope to make it better.

That night, a full winter moon sailed the sky, and the ocean was

spangled with silver.

the end.